


devoured in the sun

by borage (haechansheaven)



Series: oikawa week 2020 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Day 1: Arguments, Fights, Love Confessions, M/M, Oikawa Week 2020, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haechansheaven/pseuds/borage
Summary: When Tooru wakes up, Shoyou's body is blazing, sprawled across the bed, shoving him towards the wall. Maybe this place is starting to feel like home.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Series: oikawa week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832464
Comments: 14
Kudos: 149
Collections: Oikawa Week 2020





	devoured in the sun

**Author's Note:**

> for oikawa week 2020, day 1: arguments
> 
>  **notes** : as stated, this is (theoretically) post-canon. hinata-is-in-brazil post-canon.

Sometimes it all bubbles over like this. Tooru doesn’t mean for it to. Shoyou stares at him like he has three heads, hands curled into fists, before he walks out of the room. They’re both different now, and Shoyou’s anger is the quiet type, churning under the surface and folding itself up until he can deal with it later, in his own time, in his own space.

Things tend to fall apart like this, in front of his very eyes, when he loses control. It’s why he’s practiced patience and breathing and sympathy. None of it can make up for his shortcomings, though, and that’s why he’s here, alone, in Shoyou’s bedroom, head in his hands.

It started innocently enough. A teasing remark that, any other day, would have flown over Tooru’s head. And maybe he should’ve let it. Maybe he should’ve swallowed his pride, closed his eyes, and gone to sleep. Shoyou didn’t mean anything of it—he never did, anyways. It’s his sharp tongue that, paired with his incessant demands of _moremoremore_ captivated the world and had setters on his knees.

Tooru knows this is not permanent. Whatever they have, whatever they are, will disappear and fade the moment Shoyou moves onto another stage in another place at another time. That’s always how it’s been. Tooru pushes them to chase their dreams because he’s forgotten how to be selfish, and they take his advice and fly to places he can’t reach.

First Hajime. Next, Shoyou. In the middle, there was someone else, and if Tooru gives it a little thought, he can remember a face and a name and a laugh that was so loud and so familiar. None of them matter. Not in this moment. He hears the front door close and lets his body relax. Shoyou will come back—this is his home, after all—and Tooru will not need to chase after him. If he was truly angry, he would have asked him to leave.

If Shoyou was angry, he would have packed Tooru’s things up with the swiftness he shows on court, and called a taxi to take him to a hotel. The hotel he’s supposed to be staying in, where his teammates are. Those same teammates who teasingly elbowed him, slapped him on the back, and, with a final group of winks, set him off, into Shoyou’s waiting arms.

Tooru, if he’s honest, has been consumed. It’s easy to be consumed like this when you’re in the sun too much. You get greedy and incessant and you beg and plead until you get what you want. And if you don’t, you simply fight again and again until you do. Tooru hits things until they break, only so they don’t break him, first.

Hajime has told him he was a mess. That, the whole reason they didn’t work out in the first place is because when they were together, Tooru was still learning how to be honest, and Hajime was already twelve steps ahead. “Being mature isn’t the same thing as being wise,” Hajime had said, smile easy-going. “You’ll figure it out. And you’re not gettin’ rid of me, either, you fuckin’ piece of trash.” Tooru had laughed and laughed and laughed until he was home, and all he had done was cried. The next morning, he and Hajime walked to the gym together, like always. And that was that.

He doesn’t have that repertoire or history with Shoyou, though. Bubbling underneath is an ancestral sort of animosity, build upon a foundation of awe and respect. Tooru thinks, sometimes, that he deserves it. Other times, he wonders how to make it all go away. Because he’s Tooru Oikawa here, not of Aoba Johsai, but of CA San Juan.

Before him is Shoyo Hinata of ASAS São Paulo, not Karasuno or MSBY Black Jackals. He remembers that, most of the time, though it can be hard. No matter what, looking at Shoyou is like staring into the sun. If you gaze upon him too long, you’ll go blind. He’s warm to the touch—he really is, his body heat acts like a natural furnace, and Tooru always cranks up the settings on the fan in the bedroom when he’s here—and it’s almost as if he holds on too long, he’ll be burnt.

He falls asleep because he knows Shoyou will be back. There’s never a doubt that Shoyou will leave him behind for good. This place has become _their_ space. They both rest here morning, day, and evening when Tooru is here, the looming shadow of a match over their shoulders. And then, eventually, he packs his things up before the run has risen, and leaves, only leaving the imprint of his body under the covers and a messily scrawled note.

When Tooru wakes up, Shoyou’s body is blazing, sprawled across the bed, shoving him towards the wall. Maybe this place is starting to feel like home, even when it’s not supposed to. And that’s dangerous. And worrisome. He wonders if this apartment feels like home because Shoyou is a glimpse of familiarity, or if it’s because there’s something more growing. Regardless, he holds Shoyou’s face in his hands and thinks that it’s a conundrum he can consider another day.

Between them is a steadily growing rift that Tooru is afraid to stare at. The longer he looks, the more likely he is to fall into it, unable to escape. And if he doesn’t address it, Shoyou won’t, either. There’s this unspoken sort of agreement between them to skirt around the things that choke Tooru, silence him.

He packs early in the morning, though Shoyou is awake this time, hands keeping busy as he makes breakfast, holds Tooru’s face in his hands, and kisses him goodbye, wishing him safe travels home. There’s nothing final about it, and Tooru isn’t sure why he was expecting it to be.

“Goodbye,” Shoyou whispers quietly against his lips, “Come back soon.”

Because if he is Tooru’s glimpse of familiarity, he is Shoyou’s anchor, keeping him rooted here, for now, until he blooms so big, so bright, that he moves, once again, to find more space.

They don’t talk about it for days—weeks, even—until Shoyou is drunk, and it’s three in the morning and he’s calling Tooru and of course, _of course_ Tooru picks up the phone because this is Shoyou and why wouldn’t he? But it’s three in the morning, and Tooru doesn’t stay up late like this anymore. His mind is slow to get going, slow to realize what exactly is happening.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Shoyou wails through the phone. “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I did it again, I’m sorry_.”

“Did what?” Tooru asks, listening to the voices in the background. It’s a party, or a bar, or both, and it’s busy. It’s hard to hear Shoyou—or it _would_ be if Shoyou wasn’t, well, Shoyou. “What did you do? Calm down.”

“ _I—_ ” he hiccups and Tooru prays to whatever deity is out there that he doesn’t start to feel sick during the call –“ _I made you angry, again. I did it_ again _._ ”

Blinking into the dark, Tooru’s mind frantically tries to boot up and figure out what he’s talking about. His mind can’t make sense of this and the world feels upside down. Shoyou is inconsolable, really, and there’s the sound of scuffle, and Tooru thinks that someone is trying to take the phone away and _losing_ , and, right, Shoyou’s always been tough like that. Impossible like that.

Really impossible. _Super_ impossible. Tooru has never understood him, maybe because there isn’t anything to be understood. Shoyou is simplicity in a complex way. A living contradiction.

“ _I didn’t wanna fight your last night_ ,” he mumbles, breathless, into the phone. “ _I never wanna fight._ ”

“It happens, sometimes,” Tooru consoles, because it’s the truth. Fighting is, in a way, inevitable. “We’ll be fine.”

“ _We gotta_ talk _about it, though_.”

Shoyou wants to talk, do they’ll talk. He would never say no. Just—

“Later, then.” Shoyou grumbles, and Tooru laughs, and the rift between them feels a little smaller. “We’ll talk later, I promise, when you’re not drunk and I’m not half-asleep and I can understand what you’re talking about.”

Tooru sleeps that night, after a long, long, long conversation about all the things that make Shoyou _happy_ , his name appearing several times, before the phone is wrestled from his hands, a, “ _Sorry for letting him wake you up_ ,” muttered, call ending. He can’t even reply, “No, it’s fine,” not that it matters.

Instead of a call, a breathless Shoyou stands in front of him after days. Both of them are reckless like this, probably, so he shouldn’t be surprised. Probably. For a moment, he thinks it might be a mirage because he missed Shoyou _so much_ —it’s a though, a feeling, a wonder that he’s not ready to untangle just yet because they’re just Tooru and Shoyou and that’s it, nothing more—until his face is in Shoyou’s hands and he’s shouting because he’s sorry.

And yelling because you’re apologetic doesn’t make sense to any of the people around them, but it feels _right_ because Shoyou is only quiet when he’s angry.

Tooru’s hands feel cold in comparison over his, and it’s a little hard to smile or talk as Shoyou just steams ahead, but he doesn’t mind. Tooru never minds basking in Shoyou’s presence, even if it’s a little too bright, a little blistering, a lot overwhelming. So he lets Shoyou say everything he wants—everything they need—blind to his neighbors across the hall who stare at him with a blatant sense of confusion and curiosity before they leave.

That night, in his apartment, the rift is gone, and Shoyou laughs on the phone, apologetic to his captain for so suddenly running away. It’s a long conversation that seems to last for nearly forever. Tooru learns bits and pieces from the conversation—“It’s our day off, anyways, isn’t it? Isn’t it okay that I’m here? Right, right? You’re the one who told me to figure it out, after all!”—and eventually he figures that it’s better to stop listening.

So, instead, he watches the way blood rushes up Shoyou’s neck and settles in his cheeks as he desperately explains himself, the way it drains away, shoulders relaxing as Tooru links their fingers together, ears unhearing, before they seize up again, voice stuttering as his captain raises his voice _again_. It’s something of a cycle that Tooru benefits from.

“I mean, it’s not _really_ running away,” Shoyou mutters, ending the call. “It’s just a day. I need to head back tomorrow, but I just… I wanted to say those things in person.”

It wasn’t that it was their first fight, and Tooru knows that it won’t be their last, but he recognizes that there was something different about it. He can’t put his finger on _what_ , but he’s glad it’s all behind them, anyways.

“I’m glad you’re here,” answers Tooru, honest. Because he is. Even if it’s sudden, and a little surprising, he can’t say that he’s unhappy. Shoyou, back pressed to his chest, holds their palms flat against one another, and Tooru thinks to himself, again, for the millionth time, that Shoyou is blazing. He’s a human fire, leaving ashes in his wake. “It could’ve waited, but I… I think, maybe, things would’ve been different if you didn’t.”

“I can’t promise you I won’t say stupid things ever again.”

“I’d be more surprised if you _did_.” Shoyou turns in his arms and Tooru smiles, because he can. Because Shoyou is _here_ , so he can smile. With Shoyou comes happiness. “I’m not expecting us to suddenly _never_ fight. That’d be weird. And probably mean that there are more things going wrong than things going right.”

Shoyou descends into thought, dragging Tooru down with him. Outside his window, there’s shouting, and laughter, and Tooru wonders how he’s ended up here, happy. Shoyou is a glimpse into a ship of consistency on an ocean of change. It’s a rocky ride, and people are constantly coming and going at a rate that should frighten Tooru—remind him that this is a passing moment and, one day, he will also disembark at some unfamiliar location, Shoyou leaving him behind.

“Kageyama told me to come here.”

Head tilting to the side, Tooru nods. “Really?”

“He told me that communication is important.”

“Tobio did?” Pressing his lips together, he watches as Shoyou nods, hands wrapping around Tooru’s fingers. “Who knew that my precious little underclassmen had it in him to promote _communication_ , huh.”

“Well,” Shoyou’s gaze flits over Tooru’s shoulders before settling back on his face, “I think it’s because he knows, better than any of us, that not speaking up is really bad.”

And, sure, Tobio _definitely_ knows the importance of communication. It’s just in a different way from them. They know it through intuition, Tobio has learned it through trial and many, many errors. Tooru knows now, though, that having a one-up on Tobio has never meant anything. They’re all beginnings when it comes to—

 _Oh_. And, _oh_ , that’s it. That’s why Tooru has so ungracefully fallen flat on his face.

“Hey, are you—”

“I’m in love with you,” Tooru says, and he sounds in disbelief of himself. _How_ it escaped him so easily is beyond him. A small laugh pushes itself past his lips until he’s hunched over, arms wrapped around Shoyou, shoulders shaking. “Oh my God, I’m in love with you.”

Shoyou’s eyes are wide, lips parted as he stares at Tooru in awe before saying, “Well, yeah. And I’m in love with you.”

He says it like it’s morning and he needs to leave but, oh, he needs to say goodbye to Tooru before he goes, and right. That’s routine, that’s normal, that’s _them_. They’re not normal, so this is okay. This is Tooru Oikawa and Shoyou Hinata in love in Argentina, the sun set and the night outside his window alive.

This is love, in its own sort of way.


End file.
